Silent Night
by BeckyH77
Summary: Two spies share a drink after the war. Non-slash, genral. Character death warnings.


Title: Silent Night Author: Skye Rating: G Characters: Blaise and Snape. Genre: Christmas, Gen Warnings: Character death Author's Notes: I needed to write this. It sort of invaded my brain and wouldn't let go. I blame the folks at IB, particularily Dal. Though both characters are male there is no romance in this fic. It is entirely gen. It is also not overly angsty, all things considered.  
  
It was Christmas, and the war was over.  
  
The fire burned low in the hearth, warm embers and flames casting their glow on stone walls and before it sat two of the survivors of the Last Battle.  
  
One forty-five, one eighteen, both with dark hair and dark eyes, one in a green and sliver Hogwarts' uniform, the tie undone. The other his teacher, the only color present the edging of white at his collar and his sleeves. Both marked, both condemned, each with a glass of amber liquid the seemed to hold all the warmth and glow of the fire.  
  
"Merry Christmas," the younger said lifting his glass in a sardonic salute.  
  
"Quite," was the reply, glass also lifted as they began to drink.  
  
Slowly, savoring the burn of alcohol, mannerisms and attitudes eerily similar in the quiet night broken only by the soft crackle of the flames and the distant sounds of the celebrations from above drifting down. Teacher and student, they might have been father and son they were so similar.  
  
Snape had taught this one, guided him through the years of war, kept him alive, kept him sane.  
  
Taught him unforgivables, taught him to kill. He'd taught him to scream and to cry when he could, and ruthless control when he couldn't. Both torn between the Light and the Dark, never fully standing on either side but instead caught constantly in the shadows between.  
  
Snape had raged when the sixteen year old had come to him, marked without memory. He'd raged again when the boy had been approached by the Ministry to spy. He'd been a tool long enough, he didn't particularly want that for his slytherins, dammit.  
  
But there wasn't an option and they both knew it.  
  
He'd kept him sane, kept him safe. In truth Blaise had done as much for him over nights of screaming and sarcasm, childish tears and cold logic, plotting and planning as only Slytherins could.  
  
For what?  
  
For this. Light had won, it was Christmas and they were in the Snape's sitting room, watching the fire burn. Silence comfortable from long companionship stretching between them. Peace. Quiet. The only freedom they had, or could ever have.  
  
Snape had realized it long before Blaise, of course. Realized that no matter what happened they would never be allowed to live. In the fervor to make sure Voldemort would not, could not rise again--no known Death Eaters would be allowed free, or indeed allowed to live at all. He hadn't told Blaise, not immediately. Hadn't trusted Blaise to realize that they would have been no better off if Voldemort won, hadn't trusted him to not betray everything he knew to the Dark Lord. He'd been rather chagrined to realize Blaise knew exactly what would happen.  
  
Dumbledore had done what he could. They were both at Hogwarts instead of left with the remains of Voldemort's army awaiting execution. The Ministry had agreed readily enough. If it was because Albus still had some manner of control over them or because the notoriously blind organization realized they'd both be killed before their public testimony and degradation, they didn't know.  
  
They didn't care.  
  
All that mattered was they would not be put on display, would not be humiliated. They were still slytherin and in spite of this last injustice they were still arrogant, still proud, and if they had never had control of the cards, they would still play the game their way.  
  
Beside him on the couch, Blaise shifted and stifled a yawn. Their eyes met and as Blaise turned his eyes back to the fire, Snape took the now empty glass from Blaise's hand and set it on the cluttered table with his own. His aim was not quite as unerring as it should have been, fatigue pulling at him as his limbs got heavy and fingers felt oddly numb.  
  
There was no note, no warning and elaborate good byes. Neither felt they owed anyone an explanation. They'd done enough for these people. These idiots who never understood, never trusted, never believed. They hadn't bothered with explanations then, they sure as hell were not now.  
  
"You realize of course if you attempt to keep yourself awake, you're simply going to make this entire affair more difficult for yourself," Snape said. His voice held a softer note than it had held in the years he'd been Blaise's instructor in everything from Potions to murder.  
  
"I don't see you nodding off either," Blaise said with a bit of a dull smirk, and subdued yawn.  
  
"Besides, you always do everything first. I wouldn't want to shake the very foundation of the universe."  
  
Typical. Sarcastic and biting and utterly professional but... somehow it had become almost fond. At least for them. Maybe respectful was the better word.  
  
"Foolish, child. Have I taught you nothing? If opportunity presents itself, take it. Don't question it."  
  
Blaise rolled his eyes and shook his head. He also closed his eyes. "You are the most stubborn creature...."  
  
"Indeed." Snape said with a wary watchfulness as Blaise's breathing slowed and shallowed. He'd done it intentionally of course. Been sure that the decoction added to the old scotch in Blaise's glass was far more potent. He wasn't exactly the kind to coddle anyone, wasn't now. He told himself at the time it was simply the desire to indulge his intellectual curiosity one more time. To brew and vary a complicated and difficult potion.  
  
He settled back on the couch himself, eyes on Blaise for a last moment before closing them.   
  
He noticed that his fingers and lips were turning blue, but that he wasn't struggling, was simply drifting deeper and deeper into coma, slipping toward death. Now, and only now, with the last moments of conscious thought he would admit to himself that he'd simply wanted to watch, and to make sure it was peaceful.  
  
Rather smug and satisfied with himself, deeply exhausted--   
  
He stopped thinking at all. Vaguely cold, a bit short of breath, and deeply annoyed that somewhere up above them in the castle Silent Night was being sung, he simply let go. 


End file.
